


Witchcraft in the Ward

by Tea_Queen_2112



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Curses, Gen, OC, Past Violence, Peter Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psych Ward, Psychological Trauma, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_Queen_2112/pseuds/Tea_Queen_2112
Summary: Peter is about to head back into Emerald City for the second time and is worried about going. A friend is there to help him out.
Kudos: 7





	Witchcraft in the Ward

**Author's Note:**

> So watching Oz and attached myself Peter pretty quickly. Just a quick fic about an OC because honestly, Peter needs/deserves someone looking out for him. As well as that I wanted to explore how he thought about the evil eye a little more. Not beta'd or anything just a little fic about a character who deserves better. Enjoy.

Peter was practising what he was going to say in his head. Granted he shouldn’t have left it so last minute. He was an idiot for leaving it so long. Then again considering everything else that had happened it was probably the least stupid thing he had done during his stay at Oz.

He knocked on the bars of the cell and waited for the man to look up from the bed. Peter ended up knocking a couple of times before the man heard him correctly. When he turned to see him he was greeted by that familiar thick accent. 

“Hey Peter. I stole a pudding cup from the food hall for you.” 

The man threw the cup to Peter. He just managed to catch it before it fell onto the floor. Whole Francis began fiddling with something on the floor. Peter looked at the yellow cup. It was the cheapest pudding they had still anything with sugar was considered a luxury. The man knew him well. He played with the tab for a second but after a couple of seconds, he placed the cup back down.

“I hear you’re heading back into Oz then.” The man said. Peter noticed the silver tin in his hand but didn’t want to bring it up. 

“My therapy is done. I'm fit to re-enter prison society.” Peter said with an unsure tone just hinting on it.”

“Pete. Sit down on the bed. I’ll be with you in a sec.” The man told him from the corner of the room.

“Yes Sir Fran.”

The man's name was Francis. An Italian much like himself. In the psych ward as well for issues of his own. Not much was different about him than anyone from Oz except that he lived in his head a little. He had his own set of beliefs. They happened to be a little unusual for most people. A belief system that landed him in here. 

Peter sat down in the man's cell. The walls decorated with a carving of the arcane type. All types of curves out of the drywall plaster making out a language Peter could only wish to decipher. Peter asked him what they all meant but only was given a laugh in response. 

“What do you know of Sicilian curses?”

Peter looked up at him, his eyebrows pointed down in a little bit of confusion. 

“That you don’t fuck with them that’s what.”

“No my boy. You do fuck with them. The reason they put me in here in the first place was that I was found practising a curse in my cell. They stopped me from killing my rival and locked me away.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A good 10 years maybe. I’m here to stay with these mad people for good. You have the pleasure of being free.” Ten years had shown him a lot of what Oz had to offer. Many people ended up either transferring or dying. A drastic difference but it just happened to be what he noticed. 

The way Peter’s fingers began to tap on the end of the bed wasn’t missed by Francis. 

“I can’t protect myself if I go back. I need your help to keep me here. The Italians won’t protect me either. Once a horse breaks its leg it gets a bullet to the head. Simple as.”

The thought of simply going back to Oz made him sick. A million mile per hour of thoughts. Would Vern see him again? Would his supposed friends stab him in the back for fucking up again? All he wanted was to be left alone but he knew that wouldn’t happen. Not in Oz. One way or another, he'd just get swept up into some bullshit and end up worse off than before. 

“That’s why I've called you here boy. I’m going to do something I haven't done within my 10 years of being here.”

Peter’s spine chilled. He had gotten to know the man well and he always kept his secrets with him. Not a soul he would tell. Then again it might not necessarily be that. It could be any number of things. Peter just needed to do what the doctor said and calm down. 

“I’m going to show you how to place a curse. It’s to protect yourself. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

The other inmates told the older man why he shouldn’t be hanging around Peter Schibetta. How no one in their right mind should be hanging around a prag like Peter. The older man could see Peter and he did not heed their warnings, somewhat taking the boy under his wing. The man was wise for his years. 

Peter took a sharp intake of breath. He’d been in this ward so long he hadn’t even considered someone hurting him again. It happened twice now. His mind would break with a third. The thought of any of them getting him again made him feel unclean. 

“I don’t know. The Italians already think I'm worthless but that'll just give ‘em a reason to take my life.”

“Not if you put them out of commission first. Use it sparingly. Don’t start cursing people left and right. Take your time. Think through who you want to use it on. Keep your head low. Your foolishness was what put you in here again. Now I wouldn’t mind you being here longer but I don’t want something causing you such strife that it puts you in here again. You hear me?” 

Peter crossed his arms, rubbing his shoulders. The cell was by no means cold. 

The whole prospect scared the younger of the two. The whole time the man had taken the objects out of the box he had been holding onto. Before him on the small table were various bottles of liquid. A small red jar. The whole room had the aroma of a family get together. Like a big kitchen from the old country. Oh, how he craved it. The simple pleasures of his home. Both their homes. 

“Please Peter. I’m an old man. The craft will vanish with me. Please. Carry on with my work. You are the only one who understands me. Besides. I need to protect you. Even when I’m not here.”

Mr Moretti had been one of the only Italians in the psych ward that he’d seen. The man seemed to take a shining to Peter after his first month. Some great paternal instinct kicking in, keeping him away from the best he could from Adebisi. Then when he’d left the first time he prayed he never come back. Only for that hope to be ruined no less than 2 months later.

This plan was ridiculous and if they got caught he wouldn’t think of the consequences. 

Peter scoured the hall for the guards. He didn’t want them taking the poor man away again. They’d already yelled at him for keeping herbs and other things in his cell, stinking up the place and making it smell like a Parisian herbal garden. Granted it was a nice change from the regular smell of the ward still it was contraband and thus action would be taken. 

“Alright.” The coast was clear and he gave the old man the go-ahead. 

For all his efforts Peter tried to be crafty despite the trouble it landed him in before. At one point he had considered faking a mental breakdown in front of the guards to spend some more time with him, perhaps even make it to see his final days. Oz was funny with the way things worked out. 

Francis took the herbs in his hand and added them to the small vial. He explained how rosemary could be made into incense and be burned to keep away hostile spirits that inhabited the inmates. 

“This little purple flower is a betony. Use this to ward away psychic attacks. And nightmares.” He held up the purple flower to Peter’s face. This was a flower imported specially from somewhere. The plant wouldn’t be found lying outside the walls of Oz. 

Peter had been writing down everything that the man was doing, his hand no longer moving. The mention of nightmares was deliberate on the part of Francis. Something Peter didn’t like talking about. 

The other inmates hated him the rare occasion that it did happen. They all had their individual cells in Psych but for what they gained in privacy they lacked in soundproofing. Peter’s night terrors would go on until a guard eventually came in and forcefully shut him up. Through shaking or a beat down. One way or another Peter didn’t speak for the rest of the night. 

Francis gathered up a wad of money in his hand and tried to hold it to the guard, hoping through spells and other means that he could bunk up with Schibetta. He walked back to a cell with his money in hand. The transgression was done but he let it slide. Luckily he’d managed to sneak the guard’s handkerchief from his pocket and he wasn't a problem for much longer.

The first thing the man pulled out was a small necklace like vile. Easily be kept in a pocket or a pillowcase. Peter was good at hiding things.

“This is called a Devil’s horn. It’ll protect you from curses in case they fight back. That'll be protection against those Aryan scumbags.” he handed the small vial to Peter and he put it in his pocket.

The next object seemed to be a small wreath, entwining many different herbs and plant life in an intricate braid. Francis began to explain this was a mixture of Rosemary, dill and a little bit of nettle. It was small enough that they could be hidden but Peter wasn't exactly sure how he'd be able to hide the smell. Something would be off to McManus if the guards cried to him complaining that Peter cell’s smell like a fresh kitchen.

The man went through Small Things and other things that Peter could do with ease. All tips and tricks to keep away those who would do him harm. Francis appreciated how genuinely interested Peter seemed. Other people like the prison guards and inmates called him crazy. Said his Madness was scaring them. 

He went through so many small things that Peter was beginning to fear that his pockets would run out of space. He would offer to keep them in a shoe but he felt that would be a tad disrespectful.

Most of the afternoon was spent going over those things until they reached the end, at last, the man's small tin no longer having anything in it. 

“There’s one last thing you must learn Peter. And that is the evil eye. A way to curse your enemies without their knowledge. Save this for the bald fucker. I’m saving mine for that hat-wearing fuck. When I see him again.”

Francis had never seen Schillenger but he had seen Adabisi around these parts. Watching that man like the devil watched the heavens. 

Peter already knew how to cast an evil eye. His grandmother in law had the eyes of the devil himself. A lovely woman but if you spit on her doorstep your eyes would be found in the morning your neck you be shredded ribbon. Well aware of how to cast he still felt he should simply indulge the man in one last lesson. He sat like a schoolboy and listened well.

He’d rather forget Vern and his goons but the sentiment was appreciated. Still, a curse or two couldn’t hurt. 

Thus the man showed him how to cast the eye. A hairbrush it seemed to be on the table. Peter had seen it before on the patients who had long hair, like Cyril O’Riley. The inmate always kept on the brush it and brushing it. Some weird compulsion thing he happened to have. Peter only saw him once or twice whenever his own thoughts weren’t consuming him.

Challenging his energy he remained still. Peter had seen him do it before when casting other spells. Francis would stare at the mirror as though he was charging it up. The first step felt like an impossible feat for him. Looking at himself with his level of self-esteem was hard enough as it was. 

The man’s head turned sharply to the brush on the table. His gaze almost splitting the brush in half. He focused the energy of his gaze onto the brush, letting the curse of the eye seep into every bristle of the brush. 

He took a few moments after he finished starting to shake his head as though he was getting rid of anything that might have been left. 

“Now we are in possession of a cursed brush. I’ll give it to the guy later. That’s all I have to teach you. Sorry to say.”

The man seemed to be looking away from Peter. Wiping the side of his eye with a sprig of rosemary he still accidentally had in his hand. He wished he could have shared more secrets with the young man but their time was short and he knew that eventually one day Peter would find the rest of his hidden secrets. 

“Mr Moretti. Thank you. For everything.”

In Oz he only wished he had some kind of way to repay the man. Resources were low. Perhaps when he was in his later stages of his illness he could bring him so more herbs from the kitchen. Maybe even ask someone to smuggle in flowers. The man would likely want to make his death the way he wanted. Not by some curse. Even if it meant adding to his own sentence he would gladly help the man leave the way that he wanted him too. 

“Go live Peter. This spell means you’ll be out soon. I’ve cast it over 23 times in the past month and it hasn’t worked yet but it’s bound to work for you.” The poor man's senses caved in years ago. The false hope almost making Peter wince. 

Peter he was perhaps his dearest friend in Oz.

“We can go back home. When we both get out. Have a great big family meal. You can see my wife.” Peter told him.

The man thought over the offer. 

“That’ll be lovely Peter. I got to go for now. Hospital appointment. They say my lungs are filled with poison but I keep telling them my personal spells will lift it and their help is only making it worse. You’ll probably be gone by the time I get back.”

Peter hadn’t missed the build-up of the bloodied tissues in the toilet. It was hard to avoid the coughing that came from the old man’s cell in the late hours of the night. Everyone in the block acknowledged what was wrong with him and yet the man still refused to believe anything was wrong. Obviously someone had cursed him and that’s where the blood came from. 

“Sure Mr Moretti. You’re a good man.” He told him as he began to stash his herbs away into a small metal tin he kept behind a loose brick. He shoved it back in as he knew the guard was about to come and escort him to the medical bay for his meeting with Dr Nathan. Wouldn’t want to risk more time now that he had a reason to be getting out. 

As soon as the man turned back around to Peter he was already standing by the door of the cell. Waiting for Francis to leave first. Peter and Francis both stepped forward at the same time, wrapping both of their arms around each other. In this hug they both found something. Finding in the other person someone they lost in their lives. A father and a son. It was cruel that they should be parted now but there was nothing either of them could do about it. 

The hug ended as a frumpy looking guard came for Francis. The guard looked at the two of them with suspicion knowing how the two of them were often seen hanging out together. It wouldn’t be questioned except for the fact that both of them were Italians. Excommunicated Italians but still they could be tricky. Thus the guards didn’t take any chances. 

Grabbing Francis by the shoulder he turned and began walking him down the block. Peter waved one final time before letting his fingers slowly curl back down. Even from so far away, he could see the man begin talking with the guard. Peter’s upper lip almost curved into a smile. 

Peter looked back at the psych ward. It felt like he would be leaving his second home. Still with the tools he was given by his mentor he was able to turn his back on the place and walk down the hall. Back to the wonderful Land of Oz


End file.
